If You Can't Fight Anymore
by Iawen Londea
Summary: Alan finally puts Don first. Warning: character death.


**Author's Notes: Firstly, I really haven't seen that much of Numb3rs. As of today, I have seen all of season one, but as of yesterday, I'd seen about five episodes. LOL. However, I have read a ton of Numb3rs fics recently. LOL. That doesn't seem to make much sense but there it is. When I write fanfiction, I try to stay within canon as much as possible, so given how little I've seen of the show, I hope I've done okay in that area.  
**

**Secondly, WARNING! This is a character death fic. I almost never write these, but this idea came into my head at work a few days ago and I really couldn't let it go. Sigh. It demanded to be written and it came to the point where my sanity really depended on expelling it from my system. So, as long as I've written it, why not share it?**

**Thirdly, if you have any critique for me on this in any area, I'm more than happy to hear it! Flames will just add to my review count and be otherwise ignored. Friendliness gets you farther, I always say.**

**And finally, I just need to say that I love Don. A lot. He's my fave. :D**

**If You Can't Fight Anymore  
**

From the moment his oldest son had told him he'd applied to the FBI, Alan Eppes had feared the phone call that his son had been grievously hurt. He had told Donny once he'd learned to live with it, and that had been true enough. He'd grown accustomed to the dread, to the fear that arose when he heard things about Don's cases he didn't want to, when he didn't know where his son was, when Don went days without dropping by or calling. It never went away.

Then came the call that Don had been stabbed. It had taken every ounce of strength Alan had to keep it together, to be there for everyone else as they waited through Don's surgery and time in ICU. Don had pulled through then--everything had come out okay. It wasn't until Don had been released from the hospital, sleeping in his bed in his old room in the house he'd grown up in, that Alan had shed a single tear over the matter.

Which was why this, what was happening now, felt so wrong. That one phone call had already come, they'd already weathered the nightmare and come out the other side. It wasn't supposed to happen again.

_This wasn't supposed to happen a second time, _he thought as he sat by Donny's bedside, clutching his son's cold hand. Somehow he'd always known that something would happen, and even after it had, he'd known that Don's job was still dangerous and that technically things could still happen. He just never anticipated having to go through this twice. It'd barely been eight months since the stabbing, and already Don was fighting for his life again.

Last time, despite the horror of Don's injury, and the terror everyone felt when Don flat-lined, the doctors had said positive things, words like "lucky," "encouraged," and "full recovery." Now the best they could do was to reiterate how strong Don was to have made it this far. Everything else they said included words Alan didn't want to hear: "extensive damage," "don't expect him to make it through the night."

They'd said that right after the surgery to remove the bullet, but that had been two days ago and Don was still here. Don's family and friends were all encouraged by this, that he could keep holding on when the doctors said it was impossible. The medical staff had warned Alan not to get his hopes up--Don was still alive but he wasn't getting better. His vitals were still low, he was still having trouble breathing. They were thinking about putting him on a ventilator, and if it came to that they didn't expect he'd ever come off of it. Still, it appeared that Don was fighting to survive and Alan intended to do all he could to aid in that fight.

Charlie hadn't been here since the second day; seeing Don in such a poor condition and hearing what the doctors had to say about it had driven him away, unable to cope. The few times Alan had gone home to shower and change clothes, he'd left Charlie alone. His younger son would come back when he was ready. Alan hoped that Amita could help with that.

Alan sat with Don as much as they'd let him; visiting hours in the ICU were restricted because of how much care the patients required. Alan was allowed ten minutes every hour, and he spent the other fifty in the waiting room, the cafeteria, the office of the main doctor on the case. But when it came time to be with his son, Alan was up and ready for the visit.

At two in the morning, Alan still held onto his son's hand, wondering how much more it would take for Don to come through this, when he felt his son's fingers moving in his own hand. He looked up at Don's face, saw his eyes fluttering.

"Don?" he whispered, surprised. "Donny, can you hear me? Wake up, son."

Don's eyes continued to flutter, but after a few minutes they opened just a bit. "D... dad.?"

Those were the only words Don said. Alan assured him, told him where he was and what had happened. Don didn't respond much, except to say that he hurt. Alan pressed the nurse call button. When she arrived, she looked surprised to see her patient awake, but said she couldn't give him any more meds for a couple of hours--he was currently maxed out.

"Just a few more minutes, Mr. Eppes," she reminded Alan when she left.

Alan barely nodded in response, his focus solely on Don, who was still awake. Exhaustion and pain marred his facial features, but he managed a small, tight smile to his father. Don shifted just slightly, looking uncomfortable, but he was too weak to move much. His breathing hadn't increased but Don was inhaling hard, trying to draw in more oxygen. His left hand was splayed over his own torso and Alan realized that the pain was partly what was keeping Don so out of it.

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, Alan realized what it was that Don needed. Agony and denial washed through him. _No! No, he can fight, he can live through this. The doctors have been wrong already, they're still wrong. No._

_We need him, _he thought, to no one in particular but maybe as a prayer, too._ Charlie and I need him. Charlie would never recover. He's my son, I love him. Please._

**_NO._**

He'd kept his hold on Don's hand, but his son wasn't clutching back. His son's life flashed through his eyes--the first time he'd ever held Don, as a baby, and sang to him for hours. Don's first smile--even then his eyes had curved up--and his first laugh; and the look of wonder of Don's face when he first met Charlie.

All the regret Alan had felt through Don's life that he'd paid so much more attention to Charlie, at the ways that Don had suffered because of his brother's genius, swelled up as well. He'd spent most of Don's life putting Charlie first. Now, Don needed him and Alan had to put that first.

"It's okay to let go, Donny," he whispered, and he felt the tears stinging his eyes. "If you can't fight anymore, I understand."

_I'll be devastated, _he thought to himself. _But I'll understand._

Don gave his hand a slight squeeze, the best he could muster up. "Love... you."

"I love you, too, Don."

Twenty minutes later, the medical staff had intubated Don and told Alan he'd slipped into a coma. Dr. White had started to say something more, but thought better of it given his past conversations with the Eppes family. Alan knew what he'd been going to say: "Your son probably won't wake up." This time, Alan agreed with him. It was time to force Charlie to come back to the hospital.

He arrived back home at nearly three-thirty, feeling like he'd been up for months and that life would never be good again. He was unsurprised to find Charlie in the garage, working on some math problem he could never even try to comprehend.

"Charlie," he whispered roughly.

Charlie jumped. "Dad! I wasn't expecting you home. What time is it? How's Don doing?"

"It's after three."

"A.M.? Really?" Charlie looked at his watch. "You should get some rest while you're here. I'm going to keep working on this, but I'll make you some breakfast when you get up."

"Charlie... I need you to go back to the hospital with me. Right now, Charlie."

"Dad," the mathematician sighed, sounding exasperated. "I told you already... I can't take seeing Don like that. I'll come see him when he's doing better."

"Charlie, listen to me! He's in a coma now. The doctors put him on a ventilator."

He hated the anguish he saw in Charlie's eyes--it mirrored his own.

"I--I," Charlie stammered for a minute, blinking back tears. "I'll come when he wakes up."

"Don's not going to wake up, Charlie. I told him... I told him that if he needed to stop fighting, it was okay."

Anguish turned to rage on Charlie's face. "You _what?!? _How could you tell him that? How could you... how could you!"

"He was fighting for us, Charlie, but it was too hard for him. He doesn't have the strength to do it anymore."

"Oh... God..." Charlie's shoulders shook as sobs clutched him.

"I know." Alan wrapped his arms around his youngest. "I know. But we must be strong for him now, and we must do what he needs."

At four in the morning, Alan and Charlie both sat with Don, an exception made by the staff to allow them both there. They sat on opposite sides of the bed, each clutching Don's hand, neither saying anything. Don continued to breathe through the machine. His eyes never opened.

More than ten minutes passed, but no one came to make Charlie and Alan leave. The room sat in silence except for the whirring of the machine breathing for Don and the slow beeping of the heart monitor. Finally, Charlie stood up and placed a small kiss on his brother's forehead, his tears dropping down onto Don's face as well. "I love you, Don."

At four twenty-three a.m., Special Agent Don Eppes was pronounced dead.

**The End**

**I am so sorry. **

**Please leave me a review and let me know what you think!  
**


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